birthday favorites. It’s really the only thing my mom mastered from my grandmother’s kitchen. Warm soup is one of the very few good things about December. I guess now I have two good things.
My neck is covered in love bites left behind from Tory. I noticed them when I got home, so I laid my turtleneck dress out for the day, knowing I’d need something that isn’t suspiciously modest. It’s a sixties style, a dark orange short swing dress that I pair with knee-high brown leather boots. I might have worn it even if I didn’t have guilty marks to hide all over my skin.
After a quick shower, I lock myself in my room to dry my hair paper straight and put mascara on my lashes to distract from the major sleepy puffs I sport on my face.
I make my way downstairs with a watering mouth, anxious to take a taste from the pot I know must be near ready. I’m stalled at the bottom of the steps, though, when I see my father’s back as he stirs over the stove.
“Get away from my soup,” I bite out.
In the courtroom, I’m a quiet girl. In person, though—I’m me. There’s no judge here to keep tally on the way I disrespect my father. He’s disrespected me my entire life by basically cutting himself out of everything that doesn’t make a profit.
I flash my gaze to my mom who stands behind the table, thankfully cleared of all of her homework to fight the man in our house. She’s dressed and ready to go to June’s house, which means he is an unexpected guest.
My father turns to face me, holding a fat spoon in front of his lips, blowing across the steam. I hate the way his lips pucker. I hope mine look nothing like his. He opens wide and floats the spoon over his tongue, his mouth closing over it like a child waiting for the airplane full of oatmeal.
“Mmm, Denise. This is just like your mother’s.” It’s disgraceful to hear him talk about my grandmother, knowing how he could have helped her or checked in on her in Florida but refused since she was no longer his family.
“Thanks. We have to leave, so—” My mom swings her open palm toward to door, ushering my father out.
He drops the spoon in the sink and runs his sleeve over his lips before reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a thick envelope. Neither of us are naïve enough to believe there’s money inside.
“I just wanted to drop by to give you this,” he says, tossing the envelope on the table. “You can read it if you want, but basically, I own fifty percent.” He winks at me, as if I’m supposed to be pleased that he owns half of my soul.
My mom rips the envelope open and unfurls the papers, scanning quickly as my father heads for the door.
“Judge said it was the easiest ruling he’s ever made,” he says.
My mom collapses into the nearby chair, not even bothering to respond to his smug remarks as he leaves.
“Is he right? Is that . . . it?” I ask.
She brushes her hand in my direction to hush me, her eyes pinched with worry as she reads. She flips through the papers at a maddening pace, then finally gives up, tossing them into the center of the table.
“I give up,” she says, shrugging. Her eyes lazily focus on the pages. I move close enough to read some of the language, but it’s so lawyer-ized that I can’t get through the first paragraph without getting lost.
The soup rolls to a boil, so I rush to the stove and turn it off, stirring to keep the rich ingredients from burning. It’ll be too hot to put in the car for a few minutes, so I move it to one of the empty burners and leave it there to cool while I return to my mom, stepping in behind her to squeeze the tension from her shoulders.
“Baby girl, no. It’s your birthday. I’m fine,” she says, patting my hands. I don’t budge, and eventually she lets me continue massaging.
“Your muscles say you aren’t fine,” I say.
She shakes with a quick laugh.
Normally, something like having my dad show up and drop a bomb like this would ruin my day—definitely my birthday weekend. But I’m different today. Optimistic, and maybe a bit . . . bold.
Selfish.
“You know what?” I stop rubbing her shoulders and gather up the papers, twisting